


Atonement

by idlyby



Series: Absolution [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retribution, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlyby/pseuds/idlyby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ghost of Thor, the ancient guilt, ties him cruelly to the present, keeping him grounded when he longs to be free. As it has always been. As it always will be.<br/>Loosely a follow-up to Always and Completely Forgiven, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

Time has no meaning. Day and night blur together on in infinite blackness, punctuated by flashes of pain that pop and spark blindingly under his eyelids. Vaguely he is aware of the vicious press of manacles against his wrists and ankles, of chains looping around his chest. The ragged edges of the metal bite at his exposed skin. He jerks forward into them to draw hot blood that trickles down his shuddering arms and torso like a warm rain. His body strains and arches with every stab of ice shooting down his spine; the sensation wraps in crystalline bands around his lungs to restrict his breath to short, sharp pants. A cold sweat trickles down his nose and neck, eliciting violent shivers. It tears at him from the inside out, frigid tongues in his belly, frozen knives in his sides. The poison churns, jagged and sharp and bitterly cold in his veins with every nervous staccato heartbeat. A bowl is lifted to his parched, bloodless lips and he turns his head away. The water scalds his tongue, impossible to swallow. Instead he licks his lips and tastes the acid tang of venom, the only substance his system will now accept.

 _Loki_.

Physical pain has never bothered him. Weary of his vulnerable form, he taught himself long ago to separate himself from sensation and retreat to his mind. He could withstand this physical torture just as well as ay other he’s faced in all his millennia, but here in this cave, on this godforsaken rock, it’s not so much the convulsive shivering of his exhausted muscles or the chilling of his brittle bones that torments him, but the sound of quiet sobbing that finds its way through the haze of frost. Sometimes he imagines he can feel hands smoothing his damp hair from his temples with a tenderness that shatters him.

He is on fire.

_Loki, can you hear me?_

__If not for the voice calling his name he could forget himself. I’m here. I’ve come back. Like clockwork. The ghost of Thor, the ancient guilt, ties him cruelly to the present, keeping him grounded when he longs to be free. As it has always been. As it always will be. He grits his teeth so hard they may very well snap, but will not let the tears fall.

_Come back to me._

Thor would wipe his own hot tears from Loki’s cold cheeks with feather-light fingertips. He would cup Loki’s face bracingly in his warm palm, as he did when they were children. Sometimes the fantasy is so vivid Loki can smell the heat and electricity that cling to Thor like a second skin, laced more often than not now with the cloying smell of liquor, stronger each time. Large hands come to rest on his shoulders, pinning him motionless to the rock so that he cannot twist away from pain and ice that wrack his tired frame. Here he cannot escape even in sleep.

_Back home._

The chimera of Thor’s voice drones on, often to weave stories of the court Loki longs to forget. Strange visions of funeral processions and coronations slip through his fevered brain, and the only constant is Thor’s twisted expression of grief.

_I could let you go._

When his heavy, aching head dips and his numb lips part as if to murmur consent he reminds himself that he chose this punishment. Keeps him sane. He digs his wrists into the cuffs to pull himself back to reality. Sometimes he hears low, ragged moans, and wonders if they’re from his own throat, or if they merely echo in his head.

Other times it’s a deeper, slower poison. Thor’s voice rumbles low to paint a childhood Loki erased long ago.

_Do you remember when…?_

The memories are sickeningly sweet where they hang, polished and tidy in the gritty disorder of the cave, far too bright in the darkness. The way the sun caught in Thor’s hair as they chased each other through the gardens as boys, a small hand slipped into the palm of a larger one, two young men huddled for warmth on Jötunheim – no. Stop, Odinson. Stop at once.

Loki thrashes in his bonds, almost oblivious to the obscene cracking of his joints and the renewed pain that shoots through his overextended, quaking limbs. Tell me you do. Loki strains as if to break free and fling himself at Thor, to rage against him.

_If only then I had not been so blind._

It is not the first time Loki has dreamed of honeyed apologies from those lips. He never imagined them so broken. Thor’s uncharacteristically soft, cracking voice slips through the chinks in the ice around Loki, aimed straight for his heart.

But the poison was never meant to be hallucinogenic. Odin must have seen the way his adopted son shrugged off physical torment, and adapted the venom accordingly. Loki should have known better than to let Odin see through his façade that day, should have contained his horror at having been lied to at least until he was alone. He has only himself to blame for having made himself so vulnerable, and for succumbing to such weak, sentimental nonsense.

Laufeyson can no longer feel his fingers.

_Never doubt that I love you._

__Often it’s a mad jumble of recycled words – mostly Loki’s own – that elicit slurred curses from his numb, leaden tongue. Words designed to pierce, to shred, to burn the way only a truly cruel figment of Loki’s imagination would be able. Words that in Thor’s voice gently point out all his flaws, recreating the mess of the past few Midgard years to illustrate everything he, Loki, did wrong. Words smolder on the edges of his consciousness even when he tries to fill himself with the brittle pain of the ice and block out the heated sentiment that threatens to melt the careful walls he’s spent millennia building himself.

Curses freeze apologies in his throat, and he gags, retches.

Hot hands curl around his wrists and he is vaguely aware of the disappearance of the manacles. When they were children Thor used to hold his thrashing body until the fight had left him, and then cradle him impossibly closer in the dark of night when the rest of the palace had gone to bed in the knowledge that all was well in Asgard. Loki gasps in the scents of rich ceremonial oils and fresh sweat.

Smells like home. Damn him.

The new position brings new agony to his limbs, too long accustomed to being eagle-spread like a buffet. He falls to his knees at what he imagines are Thor’s feet and clings to the waves of pain rolling through him to remind himself of what is real. Physical torture is nothing.

Strong, gentle arms lift him into a familiar embrace. Thor’s heart pumps steadily through the haze, in time with a low murmur of words that washes through Loki, soothing and stilling. I need you now, more than ever. It’s almost enough to make Loki believe. The ebbing return of sensation to his fingers and toes makes him still, then resume his shuddering tenfold, bent nearly double with convulsions in Thor’s arms. If this is recovery he would take the alternative any day. Thor’s stubble rasps at Loki’s forehead when he leans in to kiss his high, clammy brow.

“Brother.”

It’s too clear to be a dream any longer. Loki forces his eyes open; Thor’s face swims, blurred, before him, drawn with exhaustion, rough with emotion, torn apart by a hopeful smile. Sees Thor on his knees, begging for Loki’s forgiveness. All that’s left now is bittersweet sorrow, choking him. Loki folds in on himself as if to hold in his grief, but the ice is gone and he has broken.

Venom still drips and splatters, sizzling, on the floor beneath where Loki has been confined. It has left dark, blistering scorch marks on Thor’s hands and face. His hair is matted with sweat and dirt, his features shadowy in the dim of the cave. His ceremonial armor is streaked with grime; the garments he wears are ripped jagged by the rocks on the cave floor.

“And so you are king now,” Loki rasps. He cannot bring himself to meet eyes with Thor, even when the other lifts his chin with a touch to peer into his face.

Thor’s eyes are damp.

“Can I come home?” Loki doesn’t mean to say it. The words fall from his mouth like the venom of the serpent, twice as painful and at least as deadly. Thor’s body is burning a hot tattoo against his own. He reaches up to remove his brother’s hand from his face, and the shock at the sight of his own frost blue skin has him wrenching away to fall to the floor again on all fours, heaving dryly, empty stomach churning.

“It’s over.” Thor covers Loki’s hand with his own golden one and squeezes. They watch together as blue fades back to ivory, and Thor laces their fingers together. “It is done.”

The silver tongue has turned to lead. Loki wishes to say a great deal of things, _sorry_ not being the least of them. All he can do is bow his head, overwhelmed by the exquisitely painful humility that washes over him. “The people –”

“Understand that I cannot rule without my brother by my side. You have suffered enough.”

Then, Loki weeps. Great, shuddering sobs shake him to the core. Ignoring the way his spine screams in protest, he bends forward to kiss Thor’s knuckles, which are hot enough to blister his frozen lips. “Help me,” he breathes.

Thor’s frame sags with the weight of his relief. He pulls Loki gingerly into his arms and stands, buckling under their combined weight. Thor’s armor is loose, Loki notices. He clings to unfamiliarly narrow shoulders, and the world rocks around him as Thor stumbles out of the mouth of the cave.

The sun is rising over Asgard, so bright that Loki must at once look away. He buries his face in Thor’s breastplate and hears the other repeating something under his breath, so quietly he can scarcely make it out.

It sounds like _thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> For M, with love.


End file.
